


let this war set you free

by wariangle



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wariangle/pseuds/wariangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the plane ride back, just minutes from landing, Victoria puts down her novel, clears her throat and says, “About our, well, our entanglement...”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Isabelle says without looking at her, a weird sinking feeling in her stomach that she cannot wait to burn away with a bottle of Scotch the moment her feet hit the ground. “What happens in Russia stays in Russia. Got it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Agent Hartley!”

“Yeah?”

Isabelle rises from where she has been leaning against her desk, smoothly hiding the bottle holding their customary post-op drink behind her back, right into Peachon's waiting hand.

Her C.O. looks sternly at her and the team behind her, clearly not fooled by their too-innocent faces. “Agent Hand's office now,” he says, pointing a thumb across his shoulder in a slashing motion to indicate urgency. “And kindly go wash that whiskey off your breath first.”

Isabelle decides to ignore that last part of his order - she hasn't had more than a mouthful anyway - and saunters past him with a mock salute, causing him to scowl at her.

“Now you're in deep shit, Hartley!” Prince calls after her and Hartley turns to grimace at her, causing her wicked smile to widen further.

She has never been face to face with Hand, but the woman's reputation is imposing enough to make even Isabelle somewhat impressed, if against her will. She lives to get under the skin of authority figures, to push against them at every turn possible, to make them questions the rules and protocols they cling to like a security blanket, but she has an inkling that something like that might not be the best approach when it comes to Hand.

A crisp, “Come in,” is what greets her as she knocks on the door and when she pushes it open, she finds Hand sitting behind her desk, reading from a file that she doesn't look up from until Isabelle has sat down.

“Agent Hartley,” Hand says, closing the file only to take another folder and open it up in front of her.

The way Hand's eyes fix on Isabelle from behind her black-rimmed glasses makes her sit up straighter in her chair, an almost involuntary motion. “Agent Hand, ma'am,” she says. _Shit_. No one told her how fucking _hot_ Hand is - and not even despite her prudently buttoned blazer, steely eyes and ramrod-posture, but rather because it. If she had known, she would have made sure to get her ass in trouble long before...

“This is your second year as a full-time agent,” Hand says. “You've had eleven high-risk missions so far and from reading this, it seems you fancy yourself quite the... vigilante.”

Or perhaps not.

“I'm just doing my job,” Isabelle says. “Ma'am.”

This is just as bad as the fucking corps.

“Then our ideas of what your job entails do not synchronize,” Hand says. “You are a level five S.H.I.E.L.D agent,” Hand continues. “That means your job is following orders. Now, I have been in the field myself and know that field duty equals making quick and hard decisions, but those decisions are up to your team leader to make, not you.”

That rises Isabelle's hackles. She may be an obstinate bastard, but she has never endangered a mission, or whatever the hell it is Hand's insinuating. “With all due respect...”

“If,” Hand continues as if Isabelle hadn't said a thing, “being a specialist meant shooting first against explicit orders and asking questions later, your training would have entailed a crash course at the shooting range. Your worth to S.H.I.E.L.D does not lie in your ability to pull a trigger without flinching, agent Hartley. Am I making myself clear enough?”

“Quite, ma'am,” Isabelle says, matching her steely voice.

“I'm glad to hear that,” Hand says and closes the file. “You are one of our best, Hartley, but an agent who cannot follow orders will soon become a problem and the only thing you will get out of that is an dishonorable discharge.”

“I understand,” Isabelle says. And because she never really can help herself, she adds, “I believe there is a simple solution to that problem, ma'am.”

Hand raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Isabelle grins. “Make me team leader.”

Hand's face remains impassive, but Isabelle is sure she can detect some amusement in the the way the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly. “You are dismissed, Agent.” Hand leans over a new folder and picks up a pen, Isabelle seemingly already out of her mind.

Isabelle raises from her chair. “I have one more question, ma'am.”

Hand glances up. “And what is that?”

Placing her hands on top of Hand's desk, Isabelle leans forward with a smile. “What's S.H.I.E.L.D protocol for agents dating their superiors?”

 

“This is a undercover mission,” Erikson is saying as he hands out ear-pieces to them one by one. “Remember that, please. It goes for everyone in this room, but especially you, Hartley.”

Isabelle looks up from the gun she's loading and sends him a dark look.

He continues, unperturbed. “As far as our host know, you're working security detail for the CEO of an international weapon company. You go in, let agent Hand do her job, and, if everything goes to plan, get out without breaking cover. Clear?”

A “Yes, sir!” echoes throughout the prepping room.

“Is Agent Hand leading the mission, sir?” Prince asks, adjusting her jacket to hide the non-uniform knives strapped to either side of her waist.

“As far as you're aliases are concerned, I am the mission.” Agent Hand steps into the room, dressed in her usual attire of slacks and a blazer. The red highlights are missing from her hair - hidden by a wig to remove one of her most memorable features, rather than dyed back to brown, Isabelle hopes.

They are a four-person team moving in with Hand. It is not a lot for going into the lion's den, but any more would rouse suspicion. Arms dealers supplying their clients with not only conventional weaponry but alien tech as well are generally not the most trusting of people, in Isabelle's experience.

It all goes to shit the moment the guards refuses to let more than one of Ms. Veronica Riesen's guards follow her into the conference room. Agent Hand is armed, Isabelle knows, but one gun would be little use against their two contacts and the six guards they have between them if they decided on a less than friendly approach.

“It's fine,” Hand replies to the sudden change of plans with the air of a woman who has never feared anything in her life and sees no reason to begin now. “Remain stationed here until I return. Hartley, with me.”

Isabelle is careful not to let the surprise and dismay she feels show on her face. If Hand is choosing her she must be expecting trouble.

She follows Hand into the room and the doors have scarcely closed behind them before her hand start itching to close around her gun. She compromises by keeping it relaxed by her side, as close to the handle she can without actually gripping it.

She lets the back-and-forth of the negotation wash over her, focusing instead on the sound of the voices and the tone beneath the words, the body language of the guards facing her on the other side of the table and the tension in the room, rising steadily with every second. Her heart thumps heavily in her chest and prespiration breaks out on her palms and in the pits of her arms.

“Hands off your gun, Hartley,” her C.O. hisses in her ear. “Your orders are to stand by.”

She does not reply because it would mean blowing her cover, and that's as convenient an excuse as any.

Something shifts in the room, as quick and dangerous as a pistol shot - suddenly the tension is running high and one of the guards is taking a half a step, a barely even noticeable movement, forward, hand going to his side where his weapon is.

The only reason his bullet goes wide instead of hitting agent Hand in the chest is because Isabelle already has her gun out with he actually fires. Her bullet hits him in the chest, and as he goes down, chaos erupts.

A door at the far end of the room bursts open and more men file through, guns blazing, and without thinking Isabelle grabs Hand's arms and drags her backward, kicking the door they came in through open to hand her superior over to her team.

A bullet whizzes pass an inch to close, ripping up a gash in her arm. She shoots off another round but doesn't wait to see if she actually managed to hit something. Instead, they turn as one and run, high-tailing out of the maze-like corridors Isabelle cursed on the way in but are suddenly extremely thankful for.

“Bet you're pretty happy about my reticence to heed orders now,” she cannot help but gleefully say to Hand once they're all safely back at the Hub before getting dragged into the infirmary to have her arm checked over.

 

Isabelle is sure as nails that the assignment is some sort of elaborate joke from the higher-ups until the moment she is actually seated next to agent Hand on a jet heading for Moscow, Russia.

“I am not quite sure why you requested me for this mission, ma'am,” Isabelle says.

“Oh, it is not quite a mission,” Hand says without looking up from the novel she's reading. “It's simply routine to bring a specialist when visiting our sister organizations. I do not expect to actually require your services.”

“Yeah, I'm there to flex my muscles and look scary, I get it,” Isabelle says. She is busying herself digging around in the mini-fridge right next to her seat - transatlantic S.H.I.E.L.D transportation is the best, even if they never stock up on booze. “I still don't understand why I'm the specialist you chose.”

“What makes you think I made the decision, agent Hartley?”

“'Cause my C.O. would never willingly give me a mission that is supposed to be even remotely diplomatic.” Isabelle rips open a bag of peanuts and crams a handful into her mouth. “I'm too trigger-happy and all that, as you know.” She winks.

Hand does look up at that and grimaces, supposedly at the way Isabelle chomps away at the peanuts. Isabelle cannot help but notice how the sun shining in from the small window brings out the highlights in her hair and the colors of her eyes.

“Very well,” Hand says. “I know for a fact that I can trust you with my life, agent Hartley, and that is not something I can say for every S.H.I.E.L.D specialist.”

Her attention returns to her book and the rest of the flight pass in silence, Isabelle busying herself with emptying the contents of the mini-fridge.

 

There is a knock on the adjoining door and the next second it swings open, revealing Hand holding a bottle of wine.

“Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure.” Isabelle puts the knife she's been whetting down on the nightstand, passing her thumb briefly over the blade to test the edge.

Hand takes down two glasses from the shelf above the minibar and pours the wine, handing one to Isabelle.

Taking a sip of wine, Hand leans back against the wall. She has taken off her customary blazer, revealing a simple gray t-shirt beneath and her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. It's different, but definitely not bad, as far as Isabelle's concerned.

“Tell me,” Hand says, her gaze on the glass she twirls between her fingers. Isabelle notices that her fingernails are painted black. “Am I wrong in assuming that you spent the journey here planning how to use this trip to get me into your bed?”

It is not untrue, and Isabelle has never backed down from such an unabashed challenge before and won't start now, so she swallows down a mouthful of wine and says, “I might have.”

“Good.” Hand puts her glass down, hands going to her waist to pull her t-shirt up and off. Underneath it, the bra she wears is black and simple and there is more definition to her arms and abs than Isabelle would have expected from a pencil-pusher.

Hands smiles as her fingers drift lower to unbutton her slacks and she steps out of them easily, elegantly, making Isabelle wonder if she handles sex with the same calculated efficiency she seems to apply to everything else.

She is already up from the bed, unzipping her own pants as she walks over, all too ready to get in on the action happening before her eyes. Hand - Victoria - removes her glasses, placing them on the shelf behind her, before dragging Isabelle in close by her belt-loops.

Kissing Victoria is not what Isabelle expected. She has imagined her being everything from forceful to uptight, but the way her arms close around her waist and her tongue slide slowly but firmly into her mouth is something else entirely. Never one to stand idle, Isabelle grabs a handful of Victoria's ass, pushing her up closer against her and making her laugh against her lips, a low, dark sounds that sends a wave of heat sparking through Isabelle's body.

She curls her fingers around Victoria's chin to deepen the kiss, but with a quick, surprising movement, Victoria is behind her, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her throat. Her hands makes quick work of unbuttoning Isabelle's shirt and the fabric tangles around Isabelle's arms as Victoria pushes it off her shoulders just as Isabelle reaches behind her to unhook her bra.

It takes some wriggling, but then both garments fall to the floor and Victoria makes a pleased sound as she her hands close around Isabelle's bare breasts. The sensation of her palms dragging across her hardened nipples makes Isabelle groan and Victoria reaches over her shoulder to capture the sound with her mouth.

Chest heaving with the sharp breaths she's pulling in, Isabelle leans back as Victoria slides her hands down her stomach and into her open pants, stopping briefly to draw circles on her hipbones, fingers teasing right at the edge of her underwear.

Isabelle turns back around as she pushes her pants down and steps out of them. Victoria's lipstick is smeared - shiny pink smudges like bruises at the corners of her swollen lips - and it's a good look on her, Isabelle thinks as she leans in for another deep kiss just as Victoria pushes her back.

They tumble down on the bed gracelessly and the feel of Victoria's thighs pressing up against hers as she straddles her hips sends another hot spike of want through Isabelle. It's been too long since she last got laid and she's been lusting after Hand even longer than that - at this point she is all but ready to combust from pent-up want.

“So,” Victoria says as she settles on top of her, putting her weight on her, her palms placed warmly on Isabelle's stomach, “now that you have me in bed, what is your plan of action?”

Isabelle just grins at her and pushes her hips up as she drags her down into a harsh kiss.

 

On the plane ride back, just minutes from landing, Victoria puts down her novel, clears her throat and says, “About our, well, our entanglement...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Isabelle says without looking at her, a weird sinking feeling in her stomach that she cannot wait to burn away with a bottle of Scotch the moment her feet hit the ground. “What happens in Russia stays in Russia. Got it.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, it took so long - I just sadly lost all desire and inspiration to write fics, but it seems that I am a little bit back on track.

Victoria is already scrabbling to undue the buttons in her blouse as Isabelle puts her down on her desk, tipping her head back to lick into her mouth, chasing the groan she makes, a deep, dark sound low in her throat.

She knows where to find the hidden zipper in the side of Tori's skirt and pulls it down and off easily, leaving it in a pool of black fabric on the floor. Victoria's legs warp around her as she steps in between her thighs and the kiss deepens, the wet sounds of their joined months punctuated by sharply drawn in breaths and quiet groans.

As Isabelle pulls back and kneels, Victoria falls back onto her elbows, her back, adjusting on the hard surface of her wooden desk. Isabelle can feel the toe of Victoria's shoes dig into her back as she hoists one thigh over her shoulder and leans forward to mouth at the enticing, silky fabric of Victoria's underwear. She gives a soft, huffing laugh when a stapler hits the ground with a thump as her tongue pass over her clit.

"Shut up," Victoria mutters.

Isabelle wants to draw this out, suck at her through the shimmering, slippery fabric of her panties until she weeps from it, but a brief glance at the time tells her that she better get a move on.

She pulls Victoria's underwear down just barely enough and licks against her with nothing in between. Her own wet cunt gives a vicious throb in response to the sound Victoria makes and then a hand is in her hair, directing her firmly as Tori presses her cunt against her mouth so tightly Isabelle can hardly breathe.

Her pants are already undone and she shoves the hand not clutching at Victoria's hip into them to stroke at her own clit, breathing harshly.

"This has to stop," Victoria says, afterward, and bends down to pick the stapler up and replace it on the desk. "This office is not sound-proof."

Isabelle, checking her knife holster, laughs and hauls her in for a kiss by the back of her neck. "You're just going to have to invite me over, then," she says, her thumb passing over Victoria's cheek in a quick caress. She can feel how her pulse is steadily slowing against her palm.

Victoria sighs and rests her forehead against Isabelle's for a second, a brief, intimate touch. "There is a reason S.H.I.E.L.D protocol discourages inter-departmental relationships," she says. "I did tell you."

"Yes," Isabelle says, lips stretching into a grin she cannot help. She kisses Victoria's cheek. "But the reason you keep breaking your own rules is not how fantastic I am at giving head."

With that, and one final kiss, she leaves.

*

  
  


"Gotta say, boss, I'm still wondering what the fuck we're doing tagging along with Coulson's little team of heroes," Hunter says, leaning back on his chair until only two of its legs are still on the floor. "I get it, you were an agent back in the day and all, but since when are we about fighting the good fight? The pay's not good enough for this shit."

"Shut it, Hunter," Isabelle replies. "If I'm interested in your opinion, I'll ask for it, but I'm really not, so please don't offer it up. If you're so worried about the pay, you're free to take it up with the military anytime." She looks up just to catch the frown on his face. She smirks. "Didn't think so."

Hunter lets the chair fall back to the floor with a thump and mutters something that sounds like "Did not sign up for this shit," but Isabelle ignores him.

She frowns down at the computer in her lap. Her hacking skills have never been much more than rudimentary and there is little chance she will break into Coulson's files without help. A very specific kind of help - Isabelle knows that she won't get access to what she wants unless Skye rolls out the carpet for her, so to speak, but it won't stop from trying.

Isabelle had thought she would be able to enlist Skye's more or less direct help for this one, but she is too passionately loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D to even consider leaking its few remaining secrets.

Isabelle may never have been a perfect agent, but she always remained loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D's secrets, even after she joined the private market. But in times of war nothing is certain and one bullet is all it takes for even the most deep-set of loyalties to shatter.

*

  
  


Isabelle throws back the last dregs of her drink and puts the empty glass down on the stained wooden table with a soft thump. "Well, this has been nice," she says, already getting to her feet, grabbing the jacket hanging over the back off her chair. Protests break out around the table.

"Come on, Hartley!" Rodriguez says. "I'm buying the next round."

"The night's still young," Hunter says, "and I still have some memories left of that fucking op I need to get rid off."

Isabelle gives a morose sort of smile at her team where they sit more than half-way to completely shitfaced, exhausted after a long op but content with being home and paid.

The people and the circumstances may have changed over the last ten years, but the feeling after a job well done with no losses is still the same. There's just something about that easy camaraderie that Isabelle has never quite been able to find anywhere else.

Still, she swings her jacket over her shoulder, adjusts the knife hidden beneath her sweater. "Sorry," she says. "Places to be, people to meet."

  
  


It is such an ingrained habit by now that Isabelle hardly even reflects over the fact that she uses her key to Victoria's apartment, even though she knows she's home.

"Hello!" she calls as she kicks off her shoes and gets a "Hello" back from the direction of the living room.

Victoria is sitting on the couch painting her toe nails so Isabelle puts down her bag of take-out and bends to press a kick first to Victoria's hairline and, as she lifts her eyes from her feet, on the mouth.

Isabelle pulls back, smiles. "Hi," she says and gives her another kiss before heading off to the kitchen to grab some plates.

"You're late," Victoria says, voice following her. "I take it your report is already written up?"

Isabelle barks out a laughs as she comes back into the living room, putting down plates and cutlery. "I'd thought the habit would have gone out by now," she says, reaching for the bag of take-out.

"What habit?" Victoria asks and makes a pleased sound when Isabelle places a container of sushi on her plate. "Thank you, love." She kisses Isabelle's cheek.

Sushi is not quite Isabelle's cup of tea, but she's been living off greasy burgers and Chinese for the past week and a half, so she figured she could pass that up to make Tori happy.

"You haven't been my boss for years," Isabelle says, making a face when she accidentally gets wasabi on her thumb and realizes she forgot to bring napkins. She licks it off and makes a worse face. "You don't get to nag me about writing reports."

"When you're getting paid by S.H.I.E.L.D I do," Victoria says. She ignores the fork Isabelle brought her and makes an attempt to pick a sushi roll up with her chopsticks instead. All residual awe Isabelle held may for the notorious Victoria Hand went up in smoke the first time she watched her try and use chopsticks.

It's been a couple of years since Isabelle left S.H.I.E.L.D. It was good work, but she's never been much of the good solider. Freelance work fits her much better and pays more to boot. It just so happens that even S.H.I.E.L.D needs mercenaries now and then.

"I'll come in and do it tomorrow," Isabelle says. She shoves a roll in her mouth and leans back as she chew it. "Fuck, it's good to be home."

"Sorry," Victoria says, but Isabelle just waves it off. They tried to implement a no-job-talk-at-home-rule, but all it did was make them realise that neither of them really had lives outside of work and as a result quickly dropped it.

"Thanks," Victoria says once they have finished the food.

"You want dessert?" Even as she utter the words, her hand is already creeping up beneath Tori's shirt to cup her breast.

Victoria rolls her eyes. "Sweet-talker," she says sardonically, but leans into the touch, close enough to kiss Isabelle. She tastes of wasabi and ginger.

Isabelle tears her mouth away from that spicy, strangely familiar taste for a brief second to say, "We're too old for all that," and Victoria huffs against her lips - part amusement, part protest.

  
  


As the sun rises outside, Isabelle disentangles herself from Tori's arms and gets out from beneath the warm comforter. Tori makes a sleepy sound, but does not wake. She pads into the kitchen on soundless feet and makes two cups of coffee, going through the familiar motions without thinking twice about it. She never did move in - it seemed like too much hassle when both of them spend more nights in hotels or on the road than in the apartment - but it's become home anyway.

Victoria wakes easily to the promise of hot black coffee and soft morning kisses. It's not often they get the chance to play at being domestic, and Isabelle luxuriates in doing so, in being able to remain in bed long after the coffee's finished and the sun's up.

She loves fucking Tori in the morning, having her body pressed up into the curve of hers, slick with sweat, and the wet heat of her cunt clenching around her fingers, her mouth sweet and desperate against hers, so pliant and willing to be taken care of.

They forgo the shower and head to the gym right after they've dressed, Victoria heading for the pool and Isabelle for the weight room. Whatever cardio she absolutely has to do to stay in shape she cranks out on the crosstrainer - she's never had much patience for swimming. Victoria claims that there is nothing more calming.

She smells faintly of chlorine and the hair at the back of her neck is damp when they meet up outside afterward, Isabelle leaning over for a quick kiss.

"Let's go have lunch at that new pasta place," Victoria says and Isabelle nods her assent, swings her gym bag over her shoulder and takes Victoria's hand as they walk, even though they really are far too old for that too by now.

*

  
  


There is not much that passes Isabelle by. Two decades in the field has taught her that being constantly on her guard, even among those you consider friends, is a prerequisite for staying alive in this kind of business. Even so, it takes her far too long before she realizes that what she seeks has been kept here, right under her nose, for all these months.

She knows, of course, that most S.H.I.E.L.D assets have either fallen into Hydra's hands or been re-purposed by the government, but she had figured they had some sort of underground holding facility left where Coulson could put some of his problems behind bars.

She hadn't realized that this run-down hole is it - that what she's been looking for is right beneath her feet.

It is not easy, passing by that door each day without more than a brief, bland glance at it, when what she wants is suddenly only one measly little lock away.

*

  
  


Everything seems like it always do when Isabelle walks into the Hub, passing through security with the usual small talk and a perfunctory pat-down (hell, she could have a tesseract strapped to each limb and they wouldn't know), but there is something about the atmosphere in the building that raises the small hairs at the back of her neck. It's the feeling she has usually before an enemy agent draws their gun or a mission is about to blow up in her face. It's decidedly no good.

She quickens her steps to Victoria's office and is disproportionately relieved when she finds her in her customary spot behind her desk, glasses slipping down her nose as she's bent over her paperwork.

"You called for me, dear," she says as she swings the door open without knocking and immediately closing it behind her. She has her work lined up for her for months in advance - the underground weapons market has really gone aflutter for some reason or other - but if Victoria, and by extension S.H.I.E.L.D, needs her, she will make the time, as she always do.

"Yes." Victoria stands up and sidesteps the kiss Isabelle reaches over to give her. "Come with me."

Victoria always gets terse when she's stressed so her snappy manner is nothing that really worries Isabelle - until she pushes Isabelle into a cleaning closet and locks the door behind them.

"What's happening here?" Isabelle asks, feeling a shiver of dread creep down her spine. Tori is the steady pillar of calm that holds up her life - she has never seen her take on any crisis with anything but steadfast efficiency. The grim set of determination to Victoria's mouth makes Isabelle's skin crawl and her hand itch for her gun.

"I'm not quite sure." Victoria's hands move to rest on Isabelle's upper arms, squeezing lightly. "Nothing, really. But I think something is about to. It's not..." - she makes a grimace - "...rational." She shakes her head once. "You're leaving for Lisbon tonight, right?"

It's really too late to back out on her client, but one botched op won't cost her her reputation. "I'll stay," she says.

"No," Victoria says. The reason she didn't remain a field agent was because she always went with cold logic over gut feeling, a skill far more valuable in the command room than in the field. "Whatever's afoot is nothing we can't handle." Isabelle opens her mouth to protest, but Tori continues unperturbed. "You have a very particular expertise, my dear, but you are one person. You won't make much difference where the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D can't, and that's a fact. And it would be helpful to know that you are safe, if it comes to that. Just... keep in touch."

"I will," Isabelle says, reluctantly, but knowing Tori's right. Their relationship is often a battle between two iron wills, but when it comes to S.H.I.E.L.D-business she's not involved in, she knows better than to not listen to Tori.

"I'll see you when you get back," Victoria says and even though it's a goodbye, she does not move.

Despite all their years together, Isabelle is still a bit disjointed at the unusual feeling of having to look up into her lover's eyes. Right now, Tori's hazel eyes seem heavy with all that they are both of them too non-sentimental to actually say, but knows to be the truth nevertheless.

*

  
  


Isabelle has has many a friend crying on her shoulder over the loss of a loved one, has heard them all spill their regrets - the things they never did, never said, never got the chance to do or say.

There is little she regrets about their relationship - not that their last fuck was in storage closet, not that she didn't tell Tori how much she loved her before she left - because it was what it was and they were both happy and secure in it. What keeps her up at night is the thought of the future they will never have, the years stretching out before her without anything of Tori in them except bleak memories, a mere shadow of her presence.

What keeps her awake at night, on her back in her uncomfortable bunk staring unseeingly up into the ceiling, is the thought of Tori's death passing by forgotten, unavenged - just a bit more of collateral damage in a cataclysm of global scale. What makes her heart pound hard and heavy in her chest is the thought of Tori being dead while her killer is alive and well, breathing and living just out of arm's reach.

  
  


It's is so easy faking a wounded ankle in order to stay behind on Coulson's next mission that she almost feels sorry for the world having only these jackasses to rely on to save it. Hunter, of course, looks at her suspiciously, knowing all to well that a strained ankle would never hold her back from an op unless someone chained her to the base, but being unable to figure out her angle, he leaves it be, following the other with a hapless shrug.

It is way harder to get past the security protocol set up for the cellar, but she was with an level ten agent for eleven years and she is familiar with most of S.H.I.E.L.D's favorite tricks.

The opaque barrier gives her some pause, but it is only minutes before she has figured out how to hack the controller and the wall turns clear, revealing the the prisoner beyond it.

He is slumped against the wall, only lifting his head as she comes into view, a brief spark of something akin to hope flickering into his eyes before he fully catches sight of her. He's waiting for someone. Well, he'll be waiting for a long time.

Words are unnecessary. Instead, she simply pulls her gun, unfastens the safety and aims it towards Grant Ward's forehead. Just as he opens his mouth to speak - perhaps asking why, or imploring her to stop, or nothing of the kind - she fires, hitting him square between the eyes, a sharp alarm going off as the bullet pierces the barrier, short cutting it.

As Ward's body falls over, a splash of blood smearing on the white floor, she lowers her arm. She feels numb.

Calmly, she deactivates the blaring alarm and exits the holding cell, climbing back up the stairs. For a brief, jarring moment she pauses in the corridor and considers putting the gun to her own temple. But the idea of dying from the same gun by which she executed Tori's murder seems wrong, almost obscene, and she has never been one for melodrama anyway.

 _I'll see you soon, Tori_ , she thinks and returns to her bunk to clean her hands and her gun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
